


Never Been Good With Change

by Dirty_Corza



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Red Pants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 14:55:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dirty_Corza/pseuds/Dirty_Corza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John finds an unopened gift Sherlock intended to give him (but then the Fall happened).  The box contains red pants/thong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Been Good With Change

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Valeria2067](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valeria2067/gifts).



John and Sherlock hadn’t made any anouncements when they started dating. In fact, John had hardly been aware of it before-

They’d had one kiss. One night with fumbling hands and soft lips two adrenaline bodes coming together until they both fell asleep, exhausted, unfinished, but happy together. There were no big plans on John’s end, simply there for the ride as Sherlock jumped from case to case, John tailing behind, coming to the forefront in the moments between.

Boyfriends, lovers, mates. They had never set a defining term for what they were to each other. Simply the consulting detective and his blogger. Then Moriarty returned in full force. Before they’d had a chance to explore anything more, and John spent his days fearing for Sherlock’s life, fearing what would become of them. 

“I’m a fake.” Hearing those words had cut John deep. Seeing Sherlock jump- it was a part of himself that fell from the roof that day.

Now he was alone. Finally, a month later, finally going through Sherlock’s things. Things left to him, according to the papers Mycroft had shown him, and, forgeries or no, John was grateful for it. It meant he wouldn’t have to worry about other people coming to take them away.

There weren’t many things of Sherlock in his bedroom. Sparse, clean, organized. He didn’t live in that room. He hardly even slept in it. John smiled sadly, thinking back to another day, when he’d first been shown the inside of this room and how he’d made a joke about it being an overly large closet that happened to have a bed as well. Sherlock had laughed at that, even bringing it up later, with whispered words that sent thrills down John’s spine.

Those days, though, were over and done. John sighed as he opened the closet, eyes drifting from suit shirts to jackets, all as expected, down to the bottom, where there was a small wrapped box hidden in the shadows. Kneeling down, he pulled it out, eyes going wide as he realized it was addressed to him, this cream colored package tied with a red bow. It was something Sherlock had gotten for him. Sherlock who had forgotten Christmas, who last year had completely ignored John getting older.

John let the card fall to the floor, his birthday had been a week ago. He’d forgotten about it himself this year, but here in his hands was proof Sherlock -his lover, his friend- hadn’t. He undid the bow with shaking fingers, afraid, almost of what he’d find here. His eyes widened as the tissue fell away, revealing a pool of red nestled inside. First, a pair of red pants, identical to the ones he’d blushingly described to Sherlock when asked what his favorite pair of pants he’d ever owned was. Alongside them, though, was a red lace thong. And John could hear that voice, whispering in his ear, after John had admitted to the red pants of his youth, Sherlock had admitted to something altogether different. John had wanted to turn, to take him then and there, to feel him against him, but he hadn’t. 

Sitting before the wardrobe now lace and cotton in his hands, reminders, such vivid reminders of opportunities lost, John didn’t bother to stop the tears. _Sherlock,_ his heart cried out as he began to sob. _Imissyou,loveyou,needyou._

An hour later, he’d be embarrassed at how Mrs. Hudson found him, crying into pants, tears staining the soft fabric. An hour later, he’d pretend the ache in his chest was just war pains, not a broken heart. An hour later, the pants would find themselves back in that box, tucked away once more in Sherlock’s room, hidden from the world, where they’d rest until he was ready to face the pain of letting Sherlock go.


End file.
